


Dancing With The Wall

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ghost Hunters, Paranormal Investigators, if you've seen Destination Truth that is exactly what I'm aiming for here, the exr is already established before the fic begins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis are team of paranormal investigators who send one of their groups to a haunted manor.<br/>Some things go according to plan.<br/>Others... do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing With The Wall

“So, what’s the sitch?” Grantaire said, kicking the back of Enjolras’ seat with a grin.

His question was met with no less than three different groans in varying levels of frustration as well as a ‘shut up, Grantaire’ from a drowsy Bahorel who’d just relinquished his spot at the wheel to Feuilly and was settling down for a well deserved nap in the furthest back seat.

Or trying to, anyway.

“This entire trip was literally your idea,” Enjolras replied, not taking his eyes off his phone. “Also, if the only reason you’ve been stealing my laptop at night is to marathon kids’ shows again I’m going to change my password.”

“So that’s what you do at night?” Courfeyrac piped up from beside Bahorel, who kicked him in protest. He leaned over the back of the middle row of seats to peer curiously at Grantaire. “Funny, I always assumed you guys got up to some freaky, kinky‒”

The exasperated _‘Courfeyrac’_ was echoed all around the van. Grantaire simply tapped his nose and winked at him.

“Children, please,” Feuilly broke off humming under his breath to chide them all gently. “Between the hours of 12-5am is quiet time in the Mystery Machine. Let the driver concentrate. And Enjolras, put that phone down, you’ll get carsick.”

“Feuilly, you complete me,” Bahorel called out drowsily. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t see Feuilly cheerfully flipping him off in the rearview mirror.

Enjolras sighed and did as he was told, slipping his phone into his pocket. He felt a gentle tug on his hair and reached behind him to link his fingers with Grantaire’s over his shoulder.

“No, really,” Grantaire whispered softly, somewhere by his right ear. “I have a lot of ideas, I never shut up. Which particular one are we acting on?”

“Put your seatbelt on,” Enjolras told him automatically. He could practically _hear_ Grantaire’s eyes roll, but the telltale clicking sound of the buckle sounded seconds later, and he smiled. “Rickety old castle-turned-youth hostel nestled in some obscure corner of the Scottish highlands, recently experiencing a roller coaster in business due to the usual plethora of guests being deterred by so-called ‘hauntings’, whilst thrillseekers and wannabe ghostbusters book in droves.”

“Ahhh, right,” Grantaire brightened. “Reports of distant wailing, disturbances in locked rooms, unexplained silhouettes and lights and breakages. Suspected wraith and-or poltergeist, potentially multiple. The usual deal.”

“You sound almost excited,” Enjolras said, amused. “Anyway, they’re closing for 24 hours so that we can investigate. I guess they figured the royalties from the documentary will cover the loss of bookings for one day, but can’t afford any more than that.”

“I have a good feeling about this one,” Grantaire’s fingers flexed excitedly in Enjolras’ grip, and Enjolras kissed his knuckles reflexively. His hands were freezing, but Enjolras didn’t comment on it. “It’s been awhile since we had a decent case.”

“The vampire in Budapest?” Enjolras grinned at the memory. “They were pretty awesome.”

“They hated me,” Grantaire reminded him.

“You’re confusing and horribly modern, of course they hated you,” Enjolras squeezed his hand to show he meant no ill will. “It’s just a shame we can’t actually use any of the legitimate footage and interviews we get. There’s this entire world we have access to and the opportunity to educate the ignorant on, and what do we do? Mess with our own footage to make it look like every other shoddy paranormal investigation show out there.”

“Yeah, but every other shoddy paranormal investigation show out there doesn’t have the fortune to have such a smoking hot presenter,” Grantaire teased. “Plus, come on, Enjolras, we have to maintain a certain degree of believability. I mean, vampires? Banshees, faeries, witches, _ghosts?_ Really?”

Enjolras turned enough to give him a look of fond exasperation, in response to which Grantaire blew him a kiss with his free hand before he turned back to face the front (to avoid, yeah, carsickness. Feuilly had had a point).

Around them, the van had lapsed into silence, even Courfeyrac having succumbed to the exceedingly long drive from their last investigation in Ukraine.

“Hey, Feu, pull over so me and Enjolras can swap seats,” Grantaire instructed quietly. When Enjolras tried to protest he simply covered his mouth with his hand. “No, I can stay up and keep the driver awake. You need your beauty sleep.”

“Rwrrwd,” mumbled Enjolras through his hand, but he didn’t complain further, simply doing as he was told and climbing into the middle row beside a drooling Courfeyrac,

As he drifted off, the last thing he heard was, “so, ‘ey, Feuilly, how’s about I whoop your ass at I-spy?”

 

***

“Dude, that’s so messed up.”

Bahorel was standing at the foot of a staircase, propping up a semi-conscious Feuilly and staring with a mixture of awe and disgust at an immense painting spanning the wall above the stairs. It was a portrait of a wailing woman, face contorted in grief, clawing at her own bloody hands.

“ _Out, damned spot,_ ” Grantaire muttered, materialising behind them in a somewhat menacing fashion that had Bahorel jumping and making an indignant squeaking sound that was quite impressive for a man of his size.

“What the hell, man?” Bahorel made no attempt to force his voice back down to its original octave. In all fairness, it was still dark out (they’d made good time, arriving in the early morning, which meant they could all get some rest before they really started their day) and nobody was expecting any frights until later than evening.

Grantaire nodded at the portrait. “Lady Macbeth,” he said.

Feuilly lifted his head to glare at him sleepily. “Don’t say that, ‘s bad luck.”

“Only in a theatre,” Grantaire countered, wagging a finger at him.

“All the world’s a stage,” Feuilly responded, just as Enjolras and Courfeyrac joined them with their room key.

“Well played,” said Grantaire. “But how much worse can my life get, really?”

Courfeyrac snorted something indistinct that sounded vaguely like ‘ _what life?_ ’ as Enjolras frowned in dismay. “Please don’t jinx yourself, that’s all we need.”

But Grantaire was no longer paying attention, he was staring thoughtfully at the portrait, eyes narrowed.

“Right, so,” Courfeyrac produced a notepad from his backpack and flicked it open with a flourish. Enjolras restrained a smile at the action; Combeferre normally kept their itinerary, but as he and Prouvaire had elected to stay in Quebec to follow what was apparently a very promising lead on aliens (they had yet to come across real proof, but Combeferre was adamant that they would some day. Bless his little fanboy socks) the job had been reassigned to Courfeyrac. “Sign out time for the rest of the guests is between 11am and 3pm, which gives us a good few hours’ shut-eye after we’ve set up our gear.”

Bahorel stirred. “I can do that after we’ve unpacked, if you’d like. I won’t be able to sleep for a while yet anyway.”

“That makes sense, we can plot out various points on the blueprints ‒ you have those, right, Enjolras? ‒ in areas of reported activity to set up the basic gear, and when you get back you can mark down the exact locations of them. Audio recorders, EMP and temperature flux detectors, etc, you know the drill.”

“I’ll come with,” Grantaire offered. Bahorel shot him a grateful look.

Feuilly mumbled something indistinct into Bahorel’s shoulder, which was a sign that they should continue this conversation on the way to their accommodation.

“If we get up at, say, 10‒?” Courfeyrac continued, met with a handful of nods. “That gives us some time to eat and explore before we actually have to get any real work done.” He fingered the strap of his backpack absentmindedly, and Enjolras knew he was thinking of retrieving his camera from its depths and photographing the living daylights out of the castle to send to Combeferre later.

Courfeyrac hated the thought of anybody being left out.

Plus, Enjolras reckoned he hadn’t yet realised that what he and Combeferre were involved in was a particularly nerdy brand of flirtation. _‘Saw this eerie yet artistically decrepit statue, thought of you. x x x’_

Which was always entertaining to watch.

They stumbled in through their door and fell gleefully upon their (already made, bless the hospitality of hostel owners who expected to get a lot of cash out of you) bunk beds, unpacking as carefully yet haphazardly as was physically possible.

Soon, Grantaire and Bahorel were heading out the door with gear slung over their shoulders, a bicker over whether or not they needed a torch (“I can see fine ‒ plus if anybody comes across us the light is going to draw attention to us and it’ll look strange as all hell.”), and a promise to screech loudly if they came across anything cool.

The others barely managed to change into their pyjamas before they passed out.

 

***

Enjolras was awakened some time later by a cool presence at his shoulder, and blinked in an offended fashion at the light from his laptop screen.

Grantaire grimaced. “Sorry.”

Enjolras just sighed, turned and scooched away to make more room for him on the bunk ‒ which wasn’t really made for two but then again, like, whatever. “No Kim Possible,” he muttered into his pillow as he drifted off again.

“Totally Spies it is, then,” was the retort that was lost to Enjolras’ unconsciousness.

 

***

When he awoke at a more proper hour, Grantaire was already scrolling through his emails.

“You’re paying for the new battery when you’ve utterly drained that one,” Enjolras grumped goodnaturedly.

“Sure,” snorted Grantaire, then perked up significantly. “Joly and Bossuet finally tracked down that selkie off the coast of Portugal.”

Enjolras detected a note of pride in his voice. Grantaire had… ‘discovered’ the duo, a pair of lore enthusiasts turned amateur investigators whilst looking into (false) claims of an invunche in Brazil (“I _told_ you they didn’t migrate!”) with Prouvaire, and following a rather intriguing series of events they had A: attempted to kill him (which was interesting to say the very least), B: accidentally stumbled across the world’s politest werewolf (a Parisian immigrant named Jean), and C: become two of his favourite people in the entire world.

Grantaire was an odd one.

“She was a long way from home,” Enjolras remarked, regarding the selkie. He leaned his head against his shoulder. “And? Did they reunite her with her pelt?”

“They did indeed. Apparently she’s lovely; her name is Musichetta and she keeps hassling them for a threesome.”

“I can’t even pretend to be surprised, actually,” Enjolras sat up, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Time to go exploring, lazypants,” Grantaire ruffled his hair with a grin, ducking to avoid Enjolras’ retaliatory swat and falling off the bed with a yelp as he did so.

“You deserved that,” Enjolras said, unrepentant. “I take it everyone else is already checking out the grounds?”

Grantaire snorted, “Yeah, I’m sure Bahorel’s doing a thorough sweep of the kitchens as we speak.” As Enjolras dressed he flopped down on one of the spare beds ‒ a makeshift desk, where one of their work laptops was continuously storing data ‒ to check their data feed and make sure there’d been no interference with their equipment while everyone slept

“Ooh, hold up,” he pulled up the audio feed from a camera on the fifth floor of the west wing. He held the headset up to his ear and adjusted the sound quality, listened for a moment, then grinned. “Looks like we have something!”

“You make the prospect of encountering undead victims of a gruesome crime seem almost fun,” Enjolras smiled. Grantaire rarely ever got excited over things that weren’t ancient, paranormal, or food; since they didn’t actually come across the first two all that often, it was always nice to see.

“Hey, not all night creatures are dead, that’s a generalisation and probably discrimination,” Grantaire waggled his finger at Enjolras severely, then continued. “Very faint wailing and what sounded like a man screaming, but then we can’t rule out that it wasn’t a guest,” he said in a manner much more practical than when he’d started in the business. (The previous manner being ‘no no it’s a ghost it must be a ghost let’S GO SEE THE GHOST’. Grantaire was a logical latebloomer; he and Courfeyrac both.)

He made a note of the location then bounced to his feet, itching to go. They were contractually obliged to wait for the owner of the establishment before they carried out any formal (and documented) investigation however, so he was going to be itching for a while.

In the daylight, the building ‒ Enjolras had called it a castle, but it was really more of an excessively large manor house ‒ was bright and welcoming, with warm wood panelled walls in some rooms, tasteful wallpaper in others and rough stonework in others still. The carpets were well-worn but not threadbare, and the furniture ranged from “relatively modern” to “probably unearthed in the attic” to “may actually have once belonged to an ancient Egyptian pharaoh” and everything in between. With varying levels of comfort, according to Grantaire, who insisted on sitting on all of it regardless of whether or not it was actually meant for sitting on.

There were only a couple of downsides, really. One being the inexplicable scent of age permeating the air; two parts seemingly invisible dust to every three parts unidentified staleness, overall it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. More… Authentic than anything.

The other was the creepy-ass portraits that lined the walls of almost every room. Enjolras found himself in a staring contest with one in particular of an elderly man with a captivatingly wrinkled face, snapping out of it to finally understand why people could imagine those eyes following them wherever they went.

(They had yet to come across any case of an _actual_ haunted painting or portrait possession, but Enjolras had his hopes.)

They came across Courfeyrac in a corridor a couple of floors below their room, body contorted in what must have been a highly uncomfortable position to try and get a good low angle photograph of the window and the view.

Grantaire grinned mischievously and crept up behind him silently, letting out an almost reptilian noise as he grabbed hold of Courfeyrac’s ears from behind.

Naturally, Courfeyrac’s reaction was to emit an earsplitting shriek and leap a few feet into the air, only to turn and release a string of Portuguese curses ending with “Cristo, Grantaire, your hands are freezing, _fuck you_.”

They stopped by the dining room to catch the tail end of breakfast, Grantaire looking at Enjolras in disgust as he picked up nothing but an apple and a bottle of water. “There’s bacon, Enjolras,” he gestured with a sweep of his arm. _“Bacon._ You _heathen.”_

“Yes, thank you, I know what bacon looks like,” Enjolras muttered, drawing strange looks from the person at the table nearest him. Enjolras smiled and hurried out of the room and into the entrance hall, pointedly taking a huge bite out of his apple and shooting a glare at Grantaire as he did so.

“Hey, Feuilly!” Grantaire called suddenly, stopping the man with his hands on the main door to the grounds. He waited for them to catch up with him then held the door open for them with a mocking bow.

“Gents,” he said by way of greeting. “I was just about to check out the immediately surrounding gardens, see if I could find anywhere to set these up for later.” Here he gestured to a long bag slung over his shoulder, similar to the kind in which golf clubs are stored. Enjolras knew it to contain tripods and gear for cameras; particularly sturdy to hold up against relatively wild weather conditions without faltering, and the cameras could be configured only to start recording when audio or visual sensors were triggered.

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully as they crunched along some gravel before stepping up onto a grassy verge. “If we’re dealing with a wraith they’re more likely to wander outdoors, I hear a lot of stories regarding wraiths and cliff faces in particular.”

“We’re in the middle of a vast forest, too, maybe we’ll even catch a glimpse of a spectre,” Grantaire said excitedly, bouncing on his heels again. Feuilly’s mouth twitched into a smile as he exchanged an amused look with Enjolras. “What? Those guys are really entertaining. Plus, I still want to trick one into telling me where the dragons are hiding. One of them must know. Guys?”

“I think we should put one camera here, that way you get a view of the entire courtyard,” Enjolras said, not even trying to hide his grin.

“Guys‒”

“Nah, better off having it facing away from the building. That way it isn’t set off by every person who flicks on a light switch,” Feuilly played along.

“I hate you both. Where’s Bahorel, he would talk dragons with me. Bahorel’s the real bro here.”

“Well, I’d hope Enjolras isn’t your real bro, considering you’re engaged and all.”

“Dear, sweet Feuilly,” Grantaire smiled. “Incest is best.”

In response Feuilly simply rolled his eyes and trudged off to set up the cameras, so Grantaire turned to Enjolras.

He shook his head. “You disgust me.”

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one who proposed to me, you knew what you were signing up for,” Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ middle and hooked his chin over his shoulder.

“Can I unpropose?” Enjolras said, with utterly zero conviction.

“Nope, til death do us part, remember?” Grantaire’s smile faded as Enjolras shuddered and gave him a hurt look. “Sorry, I didn’t‒”

“Guys?” Saved by the Feuilly. “Bahorel called, that’s the owner arrived. He wants to meet with us.”

Enjolras stepped away from Grantaire. “I’ll help you do the other cameras before we go.”

Grantaire sighed in resignation, and followed him.

 

***

“Ahh, you’re Enjolras, right?”

Enjolras took one look at the gangly, messy haired youth before him and wondered if he’d walked into the wrong room. No way was this kid old enough to run a place like this.

“I recognise you from the show,” the man blushed when Enjolras, taken aback, didn’t respond. “And you’re Feuilly!”

“He didn’t recognise _me_ ,” muttered Bahorel, and Courfeyrac elbowed him in the ribs.

“This is Marius Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac said, then gestured to a pretty girl by his side. “And Cosette Fauchelevent, the co-owners of the house.”

“We inherited from my grandfather,” ah, that explained it. “We were always telling him that he needed to get the ‒ the _problems_ in the house looked at, but he would always stubbornly refuse. He was adamant that there was no such thing as, uh, as ghosts, or whatever, but like‒”

“What Marius is trying to say is that this has been a long time coming and we’re looking forward to getting some answers,” Cosette said, eyes glittering with mirth, voice revealing the faintest hint of a French accent. “Paranormal or otherwise.”

“I love your show,” Marius blurted out.

“We know, love,” Cosette patted his arm soothingly. Enjolras decided that he liked her.

“So,” she said. “Where do we begin?”

 

***

They spent the next few hours discussing the documentary, filming a few establishing shots of the both the interior and exterior while it was still light out and before all the guests left, and doing other short pieces of film-work so that they wouldn’t forget to do it later. Enjolras did an introduction for the episode which took several takes because Grantaire kept trying to make him laugh and, according to Feuilly, his glaring away from the camera wasn’t very attractive.

He also conducted a brief, pre-scripted interview with Marius and Cosette about the reports of disturbances they had received.

Marius had spent a large percentage of his childhood in the house, so he had one or two firsthand experiences to share that they had not yet heard. He had only returned with Cosette when his grandfather had fallen ill, but already had caught glimpses of a pale faceless figure slipping through corridors and disappearing.

“Have you tried to capture any footage of these sightings?” Enjolras asked him when they were done. “I haven’t noticed any security cameras.”

“No, we’ve not gotten around to installing them on the inside yet,” Marius said. “I managed to nag my grandfather into forking out for one in the car park for the sake of the guests, but... he was rather, well, old-fashioned, and we’ve not had the chance to update a lot of things yet.”

“I can recommend you someone for that,” Feuilly said, looking up from where he was cleaning the camera lens.

“Really?” Marius, as ever, looked thrilled, and they launched into a (scintillating, surely) conversation about security firms. Enjolras politely excused himself and went over to where Bahorel was trying very hard not to hit Grantaire over the head with his boom mic.

“Stop talking to me, I’m trying to be professional.”

“No, look, nobody else is working ‒ I can practically smell the spirits in this place, Bahorel. Come on, let’s just sneak back in and have a look around, I can’t wait until nightfall.”

“Well, you’re going to have to,” Enjolras smirked.

Grantaire started and whirled around, then began to pout magnificently. “But that’s _forever_ away.”

“Tough.”

 

***

‘Forever’, as it happened, lasted approximately five and a half hours. With the guests all gone by 2.30pm, they were able to set up the rest of the stationary equipment in activity ‘hotspots’ ‒ or if you’re being technical, ‘coldspots’ would be more accurate ‒ and start compiling a rough agenda for the night, subject to change if and when any disturbances occurred.

Bahorel had drawn the short straw, so to speak, and was to be the one who stayed in their room to keep an eye on all of the footage and alert the team to any spooky goings-on. (Or like, burglars, or whatever. But that had only happened twice.)

He acted dismayed, but Enjolras knew he was secretly relieved to not have to venture out into the hallways after dark. They’d all seen some horrifying things in their time, but Bahorel had been right in the middle of some particularly unpleasant things recently ‒ things that by all rights should have lost them a team member ‒ and so was understandably having a difficult time getting back into actual fieldwork lately.

And, hey, if anybody had valid reasons to be afraid of the dark, it was them.

Feuilly and Courfeyrac carried a camera each, one at the front of the group to keep an eye on Enjolras (and, by extension, Marius and Cosette) and one at the back to get shots of their surroundings. Their cameras were state of the art, of course: night vision, heat sensors; the works.

By the time Courfeyrac reappeared (having slipped off to call Combeferre at the last minute, as always), Grantaire was nearly vibrating out of his skin.

“Come on,” he hissed at Enjolras. “Let’s _go_.”

So they did, making their way slowly down the darkened corridor in single file, Marius telling them bits and pieces about certain pieces of furniture or the occupants of a particular portrait. They carried on in this manner for a long while; such a while, in fact, that Grantaire got bored and started with his usual antics.

For example, because they didn’t want to be taken too seriously ‒ or be themselves investigated by… well, let’s just say there were a lot of people who weren’t very sympathetic to and often tried to destroy rather than aid and study paranormal creatures ‒ Grantaire would knock things off of tables or make strange noises when nobody was looking and they’d all gasp dramatically and act terrified for the sake of the cameras, just like every other phoney paranormal investigation team ‒ or ‘ghost hunters’ ‒ out there.

Which of course, led to the other members of the team glaring at him off-camera and trying to signal ‘stop being so obvious about it you tool there’s only so much editing we can do to achieve the crummy standard we’re aiming for’ with their eyebrows. Naturally, Enjolras was best at it. But all it made Grantaire do was grin and try to figure out ways to act up more without being caught.

Admittedly, it was rather amusing.

But they would never tell Grantaire that.

After a while, Enjolras prompted Marius to tell them (and more importantly, the cameras) about any notable tragedies in the history the building. There weren’t all that many deaths to speak of for a house so old, but what did interest them was the story of a fire that spread through the building like the plague just over two centuries ago.

“Thankfully most of the household got out,” said Marius in a low voice. Half of Enjolras’ concentration was fixed on him, the other on watching Grantaire darting around a little ways ahead of them, eyes wide and vacant as though he wasn’t there at all. “But one of the scullery girls realised her brother was still inside and went back in to find him, and never came out again.”

“She’s still looking for him,” Grantaire hissed ahead of them, and Enjolras froze. He repeated this for the benefit of the rest of the group.

Marius was suddenly very pale. “W-what?”

Grantaire had his hands splayed against a wall and his head was down; he spoke fast and low, almost indecipherable, and Enjolras relayed all that he could.

“She died before she could get to him, the smoke was too much, she ‒ she’s still lost. Looking for her brother. Trying to get him out‒” Enjolras broke off with a strangled noise and took off at speed after Grantaire, who’d slipped through a door and out of sight without warning, a stricken look on his face.

“Gr- Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called out, and the others followed him, moving slowly so as not to trip over anyone in the dark. They nearly walked right into him standing directly in front of the door in the hallway, breathing hard.

Where the hell had Grantaire gone?

“How does he‒ I mean, I heard he had a near-death experience, and that’s why he can sense them. The‒ the creatures, I mean,” Marius was whispering behind him, but he paid no attention, starting forward to look for Grantaire.

“There are a number of different reasons people may have a connection with spirits,” Courfeyrac answered, speaking quietly so as not to distract Enjolras from his task. “Some people are born with the ability, just seeing non-existent people wherever they go. They often don’t ever realise what it is that they’re seeing, but they might complain about how crowded a street is on a quiet morning, for example.” Enjolras was now standing still by another door, listening intently. “In some cases, it’s like… you know in Harry Potter, how you can only see the Thestrals when you’ve seen death firsthand? Basically, that. You see ghosts once you’ve seen death, or almost experienced it yourself.” He glanced at Enjolras, concerned. “And sometimes, there are some completely inexplicable instances. Like, if a certain person or their death impacted a lot of people, they might just… not fully pass on. At least, for the people who knew them, anyway.”

Courfeyrac sighed, shifting the weight of his camera. “Really, none of this is set in stone. We’ve only scraped the surface of all the mysteries the planet has in store. I doubt we’ll ever truly understand much of it. All we can really do is guess, make it up as we go along, and live with it.”

Suddenly, Feuilly shushed them. “Did you hear that?” He pushed open a door and listened intently. A faint wail could be made out, and Enjolras whirled around. “This way, come on.”

“Guys, I’ve got static on the floor above you, just east of your current position,” Bahorel’s uneasy voice crackled over their walkie-talkies. “I think you’ll find them there.”

Cosette wordlessly led the way to the nearest staircase and up it. Enjolras was barely able to hear their footsteps thudding up over the frantic beat of his heart. They heard a shriek as they approached the door Bahorel indicated, and Feuilly moved to get a clear shot as they opened the door.

The room was a study of sorts; high-ceilinged and lined with bookshelves, desks and armchairs, with an enormous fireplace in the centre of one wall ‒ currently full of nothing but ash.

But Enjolras saw none of this, and it wasn’t only because of the dark.

A figure stood facing away from them, hair long and matted, clothes filthy and bedraggled, and at the same time… they weren’t even there.

“Where is he?” they ‒ she ‒ cried, desperate. She took a step forward. “Where is he?”

Over her shoulder Enjolras could see Grantaire, cornered by a bookshelf, hands raised and shoulders slouched to make him seem less of a threat.

His head tilted as she took another step forward. The others crept into the room behind her. Marius was physically shaking, Bahorel muttered a string of curses, and a far-off part of Enjolras’ brain noted just how cold it was in the room.

Grantaire’s eyes were moving as if reading a page of some sort. Maybe he was, maybe that’s how the information came to him. Enjolras didn’t know, he didn’t pry, the subject made Grantaire uncomfortable and he respected that.

“Eponine,” Grantaire said suddenly, and the distressed wailing got louder. Enjolras repeated the name in a whisper out of habit, the word feeling peculiar on his tongue.

“You know me,” she ‒ Eponine ‒ shouted. Enjolras heard a sharp intake of breath from Cosette and Feuilly. “You know me‒ you know us. What did you do with him? Where did you take him?”

Grantaire’s eyes went blank again; he was feeling for more of Eponine’s memories, her soul, Enjolras could tell. But she was still advancing on him while he was off his guard, and clearly distressed, and Enjolras knew firsthand just what damage a disoriented spirit could do.

“Eponine,” Enjolras stepped forward and the wretch turned with dizzying speed, expression somewhere between terror and hatred. She was just a girl. “Your brother isn’t here, Eponine.”

“You know me! You know me too!” now she was moving towards Enjolras, his mind was put a little at ease.

But he still wished Grantaire would snap out of it.

“I do,” Enjolras said slowly. She didn’t seem to register the remark, so he tried again with the words she herself had used. “I do know you, Eponine. And your brother is not here. He wasn’t allowed up here, was he?”

Eponine just stared at him, her eyes huge and dark, seemingly endless. Enjolras felt you could lose your mind if you looked into them too long.

The staring was unnerving, but at least she was no longer shrieking.

“There’s a fire,” she mumbled.

“Right,” Enjolras said. “And we came back inside to help you. We came to help you find‒”

“Gavroche,” Grantaire supplied, but when Enjolras looked at him he was still unresponsive.

“We came to help you find Gavroche, but he won’t be up here, will he?” Enjolras’ voice was soothing. Eponine blurred, then came back into focus. “He’ll be where you left him. He’ll be in the kitchen, where you were, or,” the building layout came back to him in a flash. “The cellar. Where do you think is more likely, Eponine?”

She was already talking. “The cellar, the cellar, oh‒” she shook her head fiercely, eyes round with worry. “I kept telling him not to play down there, he’ll hurt himself, oh‒”

And then she was running full-pelt out of the room, Enjolras leaping out of her way, she passed through the closed door, making Courfeyrac and Cosette shiver unintentionally as she brushed past them.

Feuilly was the first to regain his wits.

“Quick, before we lose her,” he ordered, wrenching the door open and following hot on her heels. Courfeyrac shook himself and pushed Marius out of the room in front of him, Cosette already on her way out. Enjolras paused, turning back to make sure Grantaire was okay and nearly screaming when he discovered he was directly behind him.

“Go,” Grantaire ushered, taking off after the others. “I’ve lost the connection, I need to find her again. I need to find her brother.”

Enjolras, for once, did as he was told.

 

***

They headed directly down the stairs and to the kitchen, where the door to the cellar was, only to find their way barred by an old, heavy padlock.

Marius fingered his ring of keys fretfully, trying to find the right one. “We rarely go down there, there’s only junk and stuff we don’t have space for, I can’t… Cosette, the key isn’t there.”

Grantaire was pacing at the door, agitated. As much as he loved what they did, when he was in the zone there was no shaking him off his mission; especially when the being they were helping was in distress, as Eponine so clearly was.

After a moment he stopped and made for the door, only to pull up short. “Iron,” he said, defeated.

“Iron?” Enjolras moved towards him, ignoring Marius’ confused look. There were, indeed, bolts of the metal right across the heavy old door in several place, keeping the wooden slats in place. “Damn,” it started to click into place. He felt Grantaire watching him, and turned to return his gaze. “ _Damn_.”

“What is it?” Cosette asked. “Is that a problem?”

“For us, not really, if we find the key. But for her…” Feuilly shook his head, his voice thick with sorrow. “Ghosts can’t touch iron. And they can’t phase through anything thicker than the wood of a door. So, if her brother was down in the cellar when the fire broke out, the only reason she’s still hanging around…”

“She can’t get to him,” Marius finished the sentence, eyes wide. “He’s been trapped under there the whole time, and she didn’t know, because they can’t reach each other. Because of the door.”

“Exactly,” Enjolras said, tearing his gaze from Grantaire’s. “We have to find that key.”

“It must be in the office,” said Cosette, keeping calm despite the obvious distress in her eyes. “It can’t be anywhere else if it isn’t with the others. I’d offer to run and get it, but…” she looked behind her and shivered. “It’s on the top floor.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll all go,” said Enjolras. “Eponine didn’t try to hurt anyone, but that doesn’t mean she won’t. We’re safer together.”

“Like the exact opposite of Mystery Inc.,” muttered Grantaire. Everyone ignored him.

Marius offered to lead the way this time, crushing his own fear for the sake of Cosette. To distract himself, he addressed Courfeyrac again halfway up the first flight of stairs. “This is so strange. She… all I ever saw of her before was some indistinct shape, but tonight… she’s there. She’s really there. And, like, she never was before. Why is that?”

“No, she was always there,” Courfeyrac sighed. “In her full form. You just never saw her because you saw what you expected, or wanted to see. You convinced yourself that she wasn’t really there because no, that wasn’t possible, so she became a fog, a phantom. When all she really was was a lost girl trying to save her little brother.”

“That’s so sad,” breathed Cosette.

“That, sadly, is life,” Bahorel’s voice came over Enjolras’ walkie again. “I can’t see her anywhere, but the entire lower three floors just dropped three degrees celsius. It’s freezing in here, man.”

“She must be trying to figure out another way to get into the cellar,” Enjolras reasoned, hanging back to. “Keep an eye on those rooms especially, tell us if she shows up again in the meantime?”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Bahorel said. “But last time the only hint was that the cameras died, so I can’t promise anything, especially as she might not be the only one here.”

“I was thinking that myself,” Grantaire spoke quietly so the others couldn’t hear. “I keep‒” he looked back down the stairs. “It isn’t just Eponine. And Gavroche is still trapped in the cellar so I don’t think I’d get vibes from him, but… I can feel something wandering around the building.”

“Do you think you can figure out who?” Enjolras asked, touching his arm.

Grantaire shrugged, biting his lip. “I can try.”

“Are you coming?” Feuilly called from the top of the stairs. “Stick together, remember?”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire again, then nodded. “Always.”

 

***

The office was a big wood-panelled room, not quite the size of the study downstairs, but it too had a fireplace in the centre of one wall. Marius flicked on the lights as they entered; as there were no cameras in here besides the ones Feuilly and Courfeyrac carried, it wouldn’t make any difference.

The warm light was soothing, and as Enjolras looked around he noticed the fear slowly drain out of his companions’ faces. It was strange how often he found that to be a case; even the faintest source of light made all the evils of the darkness feel almost manageable.

Marius and Cosette began to make their way around the room, rummaging through drawers and cabinets in search of the right key. They worked in perfect harmony, each starting at a different end of the room and working with the same thorough efficiency, leaving nothing to chance.

“If we reunite them,” Cosette said, pausing with her hand on a stack of files. “What happens then? I mean, do they get to…?”

“Move on?” Enjolras finished for her. She gave a short nod. Enjolras sighed. “Maybe. Like Courfeyrac said earlier, there’s honestly no telling for certain what might happen. She might be the kind of spirit that haunts because she has unfinished business, so reuniting her with her brother might just be what she needs to help her pass over. But there’s a chance she won’t connect with him, or he might just calm her. We’ve no way of guaranteeing that we can even help her at all.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Cosette bowed her head. “Why do these spirits only ever manifest at night?”

“Well, not all of them do,” Enjolras paused, trying to figure out how to explain it. “But like, during the day if you see a person, you think they’re just that. A person. ‘When you hear hooves think horses, not zebras.’ There’s no reason to assume otherwise, because for all intents and purposes an uninterrupted ghost will carry on with its business for all the world as though they’re still alive and breathing,” he stopped to make sure she was still with him. “However, at night we as a species are conditioned to be on alert, to be suspicious of everything because that’s when we’re most vulnerable. So we notice they’re out of place, that something isn’t quite right about them. And the moon plays its part, too, for whatever reason. It has a way of revealing things of creatures that stay hidden in sunlight; its light lands differently on the children of the dark. It’s just the way things are.”

“Thanks, that… actually makes a lot of sense,” Cosette admitted.

“Well put, Enjolras,” remarked Feuilly. Enjolras turned to see the camera directed at him and he waved to him awkwardly.

“We’re getting a lot of good footage tonight,” Bahorel commented. “But, Courfeyrac, you need to turn your camera back on.”

“Uh?” Courfeyrac responded eloquently. He scrutinised his equipment and grabbed his own walkie-talkie to respond. “It is on, Bahorel. Is the feed interrupted?”

There was a moment or two radio silence, during which time Cosette leapt back from a drawer with a triumphant cry, brandishing a heavy old key very similar in appearance to the padlock downstairs. “Found it!”

“Ah, yeah,” Bahorel’s voice sounded strangely far away. “I think I found her. Or ‒ _SHHHHHHHH_ ‒”

Courfeyrac winced and dropped his walkie-talkie as the static shrieked in his ear.

“Bahorel?” Feuilly said, voice sharp.

They all jumped when the door slammed. When they turned Enjolras and Grantaire were gone.

“We need to go,” Courfeyrac said, but they were already on the move.

 

***

If Enjolras hadn’t known about Grantaire’s abilities, he would have had no idea how he managed to find his way back to their room through the winding corridors of the hostel. Enjolras barely cut off a scream that built in his throat when something moved in front of them, letting out a shuddering breath of relief when he realised it was only a mirror.

He didn’t even realise they’d reached their room until Grantaire came to a dead stop in front of the door. He slammed into his back at the same time as a wave of ice crashed over him.

“You lied to me!” came a muffled shout.

Enjolras took one glance at Grantaire and pushed into the room. They’d left the door unlocked earlier, and now it was practically arctic inside.

Bahorel was backed up against the far wall, hands raised to show he was unarmed, and he looked _terrified._ Eponine was again in the middle of the room, but now she was inches off the floor, her hair and ragged dress whipping around her as though caught in a windstorm, or… flame. The lights and the screens of the tech around the room were flickering wildly.

_Rage._

“Eponine‒” Grantaire started, and she whirled around. Her eyes were nothing but pupil; no whites, no irises, nothing but black and cold.

“You! You’re not one of them. But you are. You lied just like them. Where is he?”

“Eponine, we’re not lying to you,” Enjolras said, but Eponine stopped him.

“ _Did I ask you?_ ” she hissed.

“He’s telling the truth,” Grantaire assured her. “We can let you in the cellar now, we can help you get Gavroche out.”

They heard rapid footsteps clattering down the hall. Eponine raised an arm and the door slammed shut, and in the next moment Courfeyrac was pounding at the door and shouting.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras called out, and the sound stopped. “Go unlock the cellar. Now.”

“But Enj‒”

“Now.”

There was a moment of hushed conversation, and then the voices disappeared. For long minutes there was nothing but Eponine’s distressed cries of questions and their attempts at calming her or distracting her for long enough that Bahorel could slip past her, but they were unsuccessful. Grantaire’s eye then caught on Bahorel, who was trying to get his attention. He nodded towards the screens of one of the laptop, and Grantaire nodded in understanding. It had flickered back into life.

“Eponine,” her head snapped towards him once more. “Look at that image.”

“I don’t _understand_ ,” she wailed, her brow furrowed. “That’s our kitchen. That’s…” She raised her head and looked around, panicked. Onscreen, Marius was fumbling with the lock. At last, he got it open.

“No,” she cried, pointing in horror. “The smoke! The smoke!” She looked up at Enjolras, nearest to her, stricken. “I have to get him out!”

She turned and fled, sobbing as she went.

“Bahorel,” Enjolras took a step towards his friend. “Are you alright?”

He was pale in the face and shaking, eyes distant, but he nodded. “That poor girl, she must have been so scared. So‒” he sat down abruptly, shook his head and placed two jittery hands on the nearest keyboard. “Help her,” he choked out. “Go.”

They tore down the hallway after her, watching her shift in and out of focus and duck out of the way of imaginary flames and obstacles as she did, but interestingly running straight through doors when she came to them.

Soon enough they came to the kitchen, and Eponine sped tirelessly to the now-open cellar door. The others had stood back by the walls to give her space, and now she didn’t even notice them as she called for her brother.

Enjolras could almost see the flames and smoke as she coughed, put her sleeve over her mouth and dived down the stairs. With camera lights and night vision, they followed her cautiously. Enjolras was halted by Grantaire’s hand squeezing his tightly, and what he whispered chilled him to his bones.

Enjolras swallowed and spoke up as they watched the girl battle her way down the staircase. “It was arson,” he said. “Started in multiple points throughout the house, but of course they couldn’t prove that back then. One of the starting points was the cellar, where Gavroche liked to sleep between storage containers and barrels of wine.” He could feel everyone’s eyes on him bar Feuilly, who was determinedly keeping his camera trained on Eponine’s descent. “She never made it to him because a wooden ceiling beam fell, and‒” he choked up and looked away. “He was likely dead from smoke inhalation long before, anyway.”

But this time, that was not the case.

“Back up,” ordered Feuilly, and as one they all moved back into the kitchen, Feuilly himself deftly moving backwards to keep the camera trained on its subject. Eponine burst through the door after him then dropped to the floor, cradling a boy who must have been only eight or nine years to her thirteen or fourteen.

“I got you out, I got you out,” she was crying. “Open your eyes little brother, you’re safe, you’re‒ Gavroche? Gavroche!”

Enjolras was about to signal to everyone to leave the room when another voice spoke up.

“Jesus, ‘ponine,” came a drowsy grumble, and the kid opened his eyes. “I was trying to sl‒ hold up, who’s this lot?”

Eponine laughed, frowned, looked up, and suddenly her eyes became clear. “They,” she paused, as if realising it for the first time herself. “They helped me get you out before the fire could take you.”

“What fire?” asked Gavroche, and Courfeyrac let out a surprised laugh.

“You would sleep through anything,” Eponine said, and hugged her brother fiercely.

Feuilly exchanged a glance with Enjolras, who nodded. He stepped forward cautiously. “Eponine, do you know what year this is?”

She laughed, “Why would you ask a silly thing like that? It’s‒” she broke off, and looked horribly confused. “I‒ I don’t actually know. I don’t‒”

Enjolras spoke gently as he told her the correct date, crouching down to be on her level. Gavroche eyed him warily as he did so.

“No, that can’t be right,” Eponine forced a smile on her face. “That‒ that can’t be‒”

“We’re dead, aren’t we?” Gavroche asked quietly. Eponine’s face twisted, then became thoughtful; it was visibly apparent when the realisation began to sink in.

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras responded with aching honesty.

“What are we supposed to do? Where ‒ where do we go?” whispered Eponine.

“You don’t have to anywhere,” Cosette said bravely, stepping forward for the first time. She shivered when Eponine looked up at her, but otherwise held her ground. “You can continue being here for as long as you need to… to do what you need to do.”

Both children’s outlines blurred for a moment and they shared a look before nodding slowly. Eponine got shakily to her feet, letting Gavroche go to stand on his own, and took his hand. “May we have some time just to… walk? We haven’t been outside in…”

“Of course,” said Cosette, and stood aside to let them pass to the door, then followed them to show them the way out.

The others stood in stunned silence for a time, moved by what had come before, and then Marius broke the silence.

“I’m going to marry her,” he said quietly.

“Good,” said Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Enjolras in unison.

 

***

As dawn approached ‒ quite later than they were used to given that they were so far north so late in the year ‒ they began to trudge back to their room, hauling footage-rich equipment behind them. They’d explained to Marius and Cosette that, for the safety of themselves and their… ghosts, they would have to be careful with what was published in their specific episode.

Which, of course, they completely understood because they were wonderful people.

They’d left Eponine and Gavroche to roam the house on their own for a while, relearning the building they’d once worked for and even seeing some of the more grand rooms for the first time ever. They promised to make themselves scarce if anyone bar them came by. Grantaire had spent time with them, telling Eponine things that might help her out or ways she could strengthen her senses, if they were anything like his.

It was as they began the final journey up the staircase to their rooms ‒ Cosette and Marius were walking them then would retire themselves to get some rest before the working day began ‒ that Bahorel’s tired voice came over the radio, punctuated by yawns throughout.

“Dudes, your gear is acting up again. Readings’re going crazy. Sort it.”

Enjolras glanced sidelong at Grantaire and hissed, “Are you doing this?” to which Grantaire looked utterly bewildered and shook his head.

And then they heard it.

“Marius, my boy! What a nice surprise! What brings you here? And where, may I ask, are all of our guests?”

Marius went as white as… well, a ghost, and his knees would have given out if Feuilly hadn’t lunged forward to steady him.

At the top of the stairs stood an elderly man with expensive-looking clothes and a shock of white hair with glasses perched on the end of his nose. And he was quite transparent.

 _“Grandfather?”_ Marius cried.

“Ah,” said Grantaire. “So I was right, there was another one.”

“Of course it’s me, you buffoon, who else would I be? Who are these people?” Pontmercy (senior) scoffed.

“But‒ but you’re dead!” Marius blurted out.

“I’m well aware of that, son,” Marius’ grandfather said with the air of a man who was talking to a very small child. “But that doesn’t mean you can let the business slack in my absence. Chop chop, get a move on!”

And then he simply vanished.

“Please,” said Feuilly. “Tell me someone got that on camera. Tell me that wasn’t a hallucination.”

In answer, Courfeyrac waved his camera in a dazed manner.

“Excellent,” said Feuilly. “Then I’m going to bed.”

“But‒” said Marius.

“And so are you,” Cosette told him, taking his arm from Feuilly and forcibly marching him up the next flight of stairs. “We’ll see you gentlemen at 10 for breakfast before you go,” she called down to them over the sound of Marius spluttering incoherently.

“If you guys don’t come back within five minutes, I’m locking you out,” Bahorel said.

And he would have done, too.

 

***

“Well,” Marius beamed and shook Enjolras’ hand. They’d packed up all their equipment, eaten breakfast ‒ bacon and all, to Grantaire’s delight ‒ and all that was left was to say their goodbyes.  “Thank you for your help, for all of it. We’ll update the website with ‘OFFICIALLY HAUNTED’ in the most tacky and common way possible and try to be more accommodating for our, uh… Permanent guests.”

“No problem,” Enjolras smiled in return, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his ear with his free hand. “We’ll keep you posted with the episode as we develop it.”

“Thanks again‒ oh,” Marius said, noticing the small band of silver on Enjolras’ hand for the first time. “You’re engaged, huh? Who’s the lucky g‒ person?” he grinned, evidently delighted. In the background Cosette shook her head fondly.

“I‒” Enjolras’ eyes darted over Marius’ shoulder, to where Grantaire was taking one last look at the building, head tilted back. He smiled sadly. “He died.”

Grantaire’s head whipped around and, gauging the situation in mere seconds, he gave Enjolras a reassuring smile.

“Oh,” Marius’ face fell, his eyes huge and distraught. Cosette stepped forward to take his arm, her brow furrowed. “I‒ I’m so sorry‒”

“It’s alright, you weren’t to know,” Enjolras waved off the apology with a wry smile. “And besides, most of the time I feel like he never really left.”

“Dork,” Grantaire muttered, and Courfeyrac disguised a snort of laughter with a fairly convincing cough.

Marius thankfully only apologised a few times more before Courfeyrac guided him away to say goodbye to Bahorel and let him see the inside of the van, and Enjolras found himself being intensely scrutinised by Cosette.

“So,” she said, each word that crossed her lips coming out sharp and calculated. “Ghosts are real. Cool. What about other night creatures, like… oh, say werewolves?”

In Enjolras’ mind flashed a glimpse of a memory; footage of a man that wasn’t always a man, speaking ‒ with the same accent as the girl who stood before him, no less ‒ about having to flee his old life and everything in it for the sake of those he cared about the most.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” said Enjolras cautiously. “Have you ever been to Brazil? I hear it’s lovely this time of month.”

Cosette took the hint for what it was and simply inclined her head as a gesture of gratitude, backing away to let Enjolras climb into their van.

“For a dead person,” Bahorel was grumbling as he entered the vehicle. “You sure ended up in a lot of our shots.”

“It’s a talent,” Grantaire shrugged.

“It’s a nightmare to edit out, is what it is.”

“Well, on camera I’m just kind of a patch of blurry, slightly lighter darkness, right? Can’t we just say that’s a detached manifestation of another spirit? Nobody’s going to know.”

Courfeyrac turned from the steering wheel and looked at him. “Combeferre’s going to know. You can’t disappoint Combeferre.”

“No, you can’t disappoint Combeferre because you fancy the pants off him. And anyway, I’m sure you can make it up to him somehow. I’ve seen how flexible you can be.”

“Just because you can apologise to Enjolras by way of freaky, kinky ghost sex doesn’t mean that’s how the rest of the world works,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

Enjolras groaned and buried his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. “We do not have ‘freaky, kinky ghost’ sex, can you _please_ stop bringing that up at every opportunity?”

“I‒”

“No. Shh. Drive, before Marius and Cosette think we’re staying for another night. I need to get some sleep,” Enjolras said, waving a hand in his general direction and cuddling up closer to Grantaire.

“You’ll get cold,” Grantaire chastised gently, once they were on their way.

“Right now I really, really don’t care,” Enjolras muttered, but he thanked Grantaire nonetheless when he pulled a blanket out of somewhere and draped it over him. There was a few moments of silence before he spoke again, quietly, just for Enjolras’ ears.

“It’s shaken you up, hasn’t it. Them being separated for so long.”

Sometimes Enjolras felt that Grantaire’s sixth supernatural sense worked on living people, too. He nodded slowly. “That’s what I should have had to deal with. Hell knows, that might still happen. We don’t even know how long you’ve got.”

“Exactly, so there’s no point in worrying about it. Just enjoy it while it lasts,” Grantaire paused. “I _am_ sorry that we can’t finish the whole getting married thing, though. It could have been fun.”

“Yeah, well, the vows would have been kind of obsolete, wouldn’t they?” Enjolras murmured into his shoulder.

Grantaire chuckled softly. “‘Til death do us part… and maybe not even then, huh?”

“Sounds good to me,” was the last thing Enjolras said before he drifted off.

The last thing he felt was a pleasantly cool phantom kiss, dead on the centre of his forehead.

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> My foreshadowing is about as subtle as a refrigerator to the face, right?
> 
> 1\. "Dancing with the wall" is a lyric from The White Stripes' '[Little Ghost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0_IH6SKU-k)', which you might have heard if you sat through the credits of Paranorman. It's pretty fitting, go check it out.  
> 2\. All the creatures mentioned are actual things. Look them up. (Invunches are particularly bizarre, they have a leg on their necks. Word.)  
> 3\. Yes, Valjean is a werewolf.  
> 4\. Honestly though, I hope this works as well as I set out to have it do, subtle or not. Check Grantaire's behaviour and the way others interact (or don't) with him throughout the fic. And tell me if I slipped up anywhere.  
> 5\. EDIT: the location here is actually based on a hostel I went to a few years ago, Lady Macbeth painting and all. I don't know if it was actually considered haunted, but we pretended it was. (They didn't offer bacon for breakfast, though.)  
> 6\. EDIT: All my knowledge on ""paranormal investigation"" is approximate and bullshitted and mostly comes from Destination Truth (most realistic, informative and believable paranormal investigation show out there, imo; what Les Amis aim for), Grave Encounters (excellent horror movie), and Most Haunted (literally the most laughable and eye-rolling experience in modern television. You will cringe into your shirt. This is what Les Amis mess up their footage to resemble so no one looks too closely).
> 
> I'm [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com), please come say hi and tell me I didn't do a horrible job.  
> (I'll finish that THG sequel eventually. I'm sorry.)


End file.
